


time every journey to bump into you

by IronCladFeatherFeet (handschuhmaus)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst and Smut, F/M, Multi, movie theater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 17:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handschuhmaus/pseuds/IronCladFeatherFeet
Summary: the title is, naturally enough, from Franz Ferdinand's "The Dark of the Matinee"





	time every journey to bump into you

**Author's Note:**

> the title is, naturally enough, from Franz Ferdinand's "The Dark of the Matinee"

It was not a very interesting movie. 

And the problem was not that Gaby's expectations were too high. All she asked of the flick was that it provide a distraction, stop her trying to bite her nails or pace the room, or Ilya pace the room either. Hell, they were spies, for years now, and professionals at this point, and they _shouldn't_ be this on edge. 

But it was the three of them that were ...threatened. Napoleon had been called in to meet with his former CIA handlers, and the word on the ...vine (what _was_ the English idiom?) was mostly rumors of the worst possible meaning under the circumstances: Napoleon's termination as an agent of U.N.C.L.E.. 

Oh, Gaby and Illya got along fine. More than fine. Were sleeping together. Were sleeping _with Napoleon_, and to lose one member of their trio would be... devastating wasn't the right word. Without Napoleon, they would have to redefine what they were, which would then look increasingly like a conventional couple from behind the Iron Curtain, even though it wasn't like that and besides Illya was expected back while Gaby wasn't. 

It was never Illya _or_ Napoleon, it was always Illya because of Napoleon, Illya in relation to Napoleon, Illya _and_ Napoleon as their own dipole. (and it was much the same with Napoleon, only that didn't bear thinking about) 

Her thoughts were interrupted, in the most abrupt sense of interrupted.

"Gaby--" Illya hissed.

The _two_ of them (not that they didn't separate like this on missions, for missions!) were almost alone in the theater, a small one split only by a center aisle. On the other side, some rows forward, another couple were, well, canoodling, and seemed far more interested in each other than the dull movie. There was also a shabby looking older man at the far front, whom Gaby figured was probably mostly deaf --surely no one could otherwise snore through the loudness of the speakers there. 

"I have an idea," Illya explained, now whispering into her ear. His breath tickled, but what might have been endearing at times only set her on edge just now.

"We can't do anything about Napoleon, or he'll probably be in worse trouble, and U.N.C.L.E. too," she whispered back.

"No, not that." 

Illya put his hand on her thigh, high up, well above the hemline of her skirt, which was ..._suggestive_ of what he might mean.

"We _cannot_ fuck in a movie theater, Illya Kuryakin. How would we explain it to anyone else?" she hissed back. 

"Idea is better than that, Maeuschen. Besides, if we do have to explain, then Napoleon'll have to come bail us out."

Gaby winced and corrected with pained voice, "He _won't_, though."

"It won't go wrong! It's Thursday afternoon at two o'clock and they're going even further than I am thinking." He indicated the other couple with a movement of his other hand. 

"Gaby, I will get you so--so... thoroughly _fucked_" (it doesn't seem exactly the words he was searching for, but Gaby gets the meaning well enough) "you will forget to worry about Cowboy, which is doing none of us no good."

"Isn't any of us any good," Gaby corrected reflexively, being more used to a lack of double negatives, and the three of them conspiring to improve each others' grasp on the different languages they spoke.

Instead of taking offense, Illya just said, "Exactly,", and moved his hand towards the hem of her skirt.

She exhaled hard. Illya had a point, and she _had_ been saying just the other day that she thought she'd like to _do_ at least one of them somewhere pretty public, let the world know. That insouciance (Napoleon had told her he liked the word--it was a very Napoleon Solo word, and _she shouldn't be thinking about Napoleon_ or else she'll get even more upset!) seemed very far way now, next to her worries about Napoleon, worries she thought Illya shared. But taking such a plunge might be just the right distraction.

Lucky thing she was wearing a skirt today, though. "Go on," she whispered, and slung one leg half over the interceding arm of the seats, as best the skirt would let her.

Illya was right about "_thoroughly fucked_." Even if he had lost apter words to say those, the advantages of long being intimate and the strange stew of Adrenalin and pleasanter hormones make for something impossible to ignore. The crotch of her underwear seemed inclined to interfere, but he pushed it out of the way, or didn't, and toyed with her, running a thumb slicked with her rapidly evolved wetness along her clitoris just as they've found is so successful in a more conventional bed. Then he used the damped cotton, rubbing her through it in a way _just_ the right side of too tantilizing.

The geometry was awkward, but he still crooked one then two fingers deliciously inside her. In and out, in and out and-- (she wriggled in her seat, tried to find a position best suited for sating this need)

"What about you?" Gaby asked softly.

"Later," Illya only hissed, alternating his angle of attack to press the broad flat of his palm (a truly horrible angle for the wrist) up against her, which felt _so_ good, so blunt and inflammatory contrasted with the acute burn of the almost but not unbearable pleasures he brought with his fingers.

It didn't stop her reaching to his lap and feeling the strain of the cloth around his excited dick. She could have sunk onto it, right now, but probably not in a movie theater, not to escape his attentions with his fingers. And taking him in her mouth was also a no-go, not if she wanted him to have reach for her own pleasure when lying entwined and opposed was hardly an option. But that didn't mean she couldn't _touch_ him...

The only problem was that, moments from her climax, and at the odd angle around her leg, his button and zipper were not yielding to her fingers.

Illya swore softly in his native Russian, perhaps the word Napoleon (_Napoleon!_) had told her, from his study of the dictionary, meant literally, "up to the cock", and fumbled one-handed with his pants, trying not to smear fluids all over them.

Then he was free and erect through his fly, and his fingers were still on her, in her, and she lazily touched him, sparing just enough attention to notice the evidence that he enjoyed the feeling. 

"That will make a mess," he said through gritted teeth, and what exactly he did next Gaby couldn't have said because it was a flurry of wonderful touches that brought off that climax at this not quite opportune time.

"I think I know how to deal with that," she told him softly, after another moment, and Gaby, though her muscles still wavered from the pleasure, pressed her back up against the seat's, doing her best to hook the waistband of only her underpants. Point two for the skirt today. 

Illya started to object, it seemed, but had words no more than "I--" Gaby felt the beginnings of his own fluid leaking from the tip as she returned her hand there and he realized what she intended. Here she was, still wet and messy, with nothing under her skirt, and she was inviting him to literally ejaculate into her panties, with which she now veiled him. She, too, really liked the thought.

And while a blowjob might be out of the question here in the cinema, with him at attention like this, quickly bending to kiss his cock was not, although it tested her ...was it proprioception? Ability to move her head to where her hands were, without benefit of sight.

She stroked the length of him with two fingertips, took him in hand (hers rather smaller than his) as if in his act of masturbation, as in fact Napoleon was wont to do. They could find a rhythm this way...

It was doubly startling two minutes later when, in quick succession, "Also Sprach Zarathustra" crescendoed over the speakers, he climaxed, mostly contained by her already dampened underwear, and the couple and the napping man frantically started clapping, as if to keep up the act that _they_ had been only paying attention to the picture, and not other things.

"I should put these back on before the lights come up," she hissed, taking back the undergarment, and trying to wriggle back into it, and in the bright light of an all yellow credit screen she could see him nod, as he put himself back to rights, though still dirtied.

Naturally they were somewhat distracted walking out of the theater, and it took Napoleon's (_Napoleon?!_) voice hissing "Gaby!" to make either of them realize that there he was, sitting on a bench in the foyer, with Waverly standing by. (...and eating popcorn?)

"Napoleon!" she exclaimed, and bent to embrace him. If he was here, and with Waverly, things probably hadn't gone so bad.

"Gabs!" he kissed her, a brief homecoming smooch, and sniffed, which caused a naughty, knowing look to cross his face. Fuck, they probably smelled of sex.

"Cowboy," Illya greeted him, with concealed fondness. 

"Peril, it's fine! They just wanted to grill me about a case, is all." Napoleon stood up and embraced Illya, much as comrades of war might, but their thief with his slight of hand managed to hide in it a half kiss, half nip to Illya's neck. 

Waverly, if he suspected anything, was strictly hiding his emotions, but was still eating popcorn. "Hello, Miss Teller, Mr. Kuryakin. I've been in Japan the past two days; didn't feel up to breakfast yet this morning, with the time change."

"What case was this?" Illya growled, protectively.

Napoleon was eager enough to offer the explanation. "Alright, so for one thing I'd cased the joint once, and the other half of it was that we dealt with one of the men involved, in Buenos Aires last year, and the intelligence had gotten through to them."

"That's been 20 months," Gaby pointed out, after thinking for a moment, trying to remember just when they'd been in Argentina.

"Still last year, by the calendar," he said casually. "Yes, they wanted to give me a scare, they're foolish like that. But I'm not under any extra obligations, and I think I want a nap. Couldn't sleep last night--I _was_ worried."

"Of course you do. Do we have a mission?" Illya asked Waverly.

Their handler yawned. "I can brief you on it this evening, perhaps over dinner? I'll radio you the place. It's a tricky one, but not all that dangerous, we think. Victoria."

"Vinciguerra?" Napoleon asked, no doubt thinking of the mission not-a-mission that had set them together.

"No," Waverly said with a smile, "Australia. It'll be warm this time of year."

"So is Texas," Gaby pointed out. "But yes, we'll see you at dinner; it's time we got Napoleon back to our hotel."

When they were well beyond the cinema's exit, a tired but cocky grin came to Napoleon's face. "So, Gaby, how _was_ the sex in the movies?" 

"Shouldn't that be _at_?" Illya asked.

"Maybe, Peril. If I didn't want plausible deniability on the knowledge that you two went at it in the theater."

"You're not jealous...?" Gaby asked, testing the waters on that.

"Nope," Napoleon popped the 'p'. "Might care to do it myself one of these days, not that there's much time for movies, but I can't say I mind at all."

"Boys," Gaby said, and took both their arms in hers and their hands. This trial, at least, had passed and left them unscathed. But in this business they should still be savoring their time together, when it came.

They walked off, although not into the sunset, hand in hand.


End file.
